


and there's no remedy for memory

by Buttercup_ghost



Category: New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: ?? - Freeform, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Angst, Choking, Dysfunctional Relationships, F/F, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Memory Alteration, Mental Health Issues, Mild Sexual Content, Multi, New Dangan Ronpa V3 Spoilers, Nwp au, Personality Issues, Platonic BDSM, Platonic Female/Male Relationships, Pppprobably, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Suicidal Thoughts, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships, Venting bullshit, Virtual Reality, idfk, the tags make it sound worse than it is I swear-, unsafe practices of kinks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-17
Updated: 2017-12-17
Packaged: 2019-02-15 23:46:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13042038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Buttercup_ghost/pseuds/Buttercup_ghost
Summary: your face like a melody,it won't lift my headyour soul is hunting meand telling me that,everything is finebut,I wish I was dead





	and there's no remedy for memory

**Author's Note:**

> ITS FOUR FORTY AM AND IM SO FUCKINGB TIRED WHY DID I DO THIS

There is something in him, festering and ugly. He wants to rip it out, tear out whatever it is that makes him want to put a knife to his skin, trying to bleed out lies that he knew he couldn't live without.

But at the same time he didn't.

He wanted to soak in it, indulge and squirm and bleed and make a expression that wasn't _fake fake fake,_ so fake.

He wanted to be broken. He wanted to be fixed.

He wondered if they were the same thing.

He remembers saiharas knife on his throat when he woke up—confusion and pain clouding his brain, breath clouding the blade, his heart beat pumping against the dull metal. Ba-bum. Ba-bum. Ba-bum.

"I always thought I'd go to hell," he mumbled, head somewhere else, floating above, his eyes lidded. His name escapes him, everything swimming. He isn't smiling, and if he had the presence of mind he'd wonder how he was making a genuine face.

And then it was over, as if he snapped out of it, a look of fear on his face before he dropped the knife and ran.

Kokichi tried not to wonder why he the world was spinning, a heated blush on his cheeks.

 

Later he was informed of everything, shown videos that he remembered and yet didn't, auditions and killing games and death death _death_.

"The other contestants are still recovering," they said, when he asked about saihara and his behavior, "your personalities are all mixed up, at the moment. You can shift from the two versions of you."

"it's not something to be alarmed about," they say, as if saihara didn't almost kill him, as if he didn't almost enjoy it, "should die down soon, as soon as your two personalities integrate."

 

So kokichi waits. He doubts the others will want to see him, after all. He didn't blame them. If he had a choice he'd stay far away as well.

 _ah, but, isn't it unfair?_ A part of him whispers _—they accept saihara, but not you, despite how unstable he is._

He grits his teeth.

Is he still smiling? Is he still frowning? Is he still crying? He doesn't know, he doesn't care. Maybe he was always made to be a punching bag, to be blamed and scorned until it somehow stopped hurting—becoming something he expected, to the point where he was unsettled when it didn't. To the point he wanted it to happen.

Any attention is good attention.

 

he shakes his head, clearing it. That's not him. He's not that. He's powerful and mighty and the only reason it even remotely appeals is because he's so used to being up high, a pedestal. It gets boring, and anything different is refreshing.

Why is he still thinking about this?

Why is he still thinking of him?

 

It hurt, when he was crushed. He could feel every single bone crushing, his muscles screaming out in agony. He deserved it. It doesn't matter which him he is, because he knows he'll always deserve it.

He wonders if anyone else hates both of them. Hates themselves two times over—wondered if it would be better if they stayed dead. He doubted it.

Wouldn't it be ironic if it was saihara who crushed him? Who let him sprawl himself out, and then destroy everything about him—his body, his brain, his _heart_ —grinding him up until he's nothing but stardust. He'd probably still be ugly, like that. A pigmented jam of his own blood. He almost wished he could see it, himself as nothing more than a pathetic stain on this earth.

 

Did saihara mourn him?

Probably not.

 

He probably hopped that it was him under that press, wished that it really wasn't kaito. He cared about kaito more, after all, and why shouldn't he?

_("you're alone, and you always will be.")_

He laughs. It would have been wonderful if it was him who killed him—he might have well have been, anyways.

 

His saihara was the cruelest of all, even more so than before he entered the killing game, before memories where altered. When he wore shy smiles and uncertain eyes.

He was never upfront about it, of course. Maybe no one else could see it. Maybe he was imagining things.

But wasn't kindness the cruelest thing of all?

He looks at his finger, where a little cut would be if any of it was real. He idley notices that it's his ring finger.

It doesn't feel right without it. He doesn't feel right. Has he ever felt right? Did he feel right with him, or only more broken? When did that knife get into his hand?

Almost unconsciously, he carefully traces where the cut would be, before putting the tip of the knife to it.

Its not the same.

He still remembers saiharas worried face—had anyone ever looked at him like that?—the sting of antiseptic, his breath getting caught in his throat. Even when he was hurting him, his saihara looked so beautiful, so gentle. Innocent, in a way.

He wants to see that innocent gaze on him, as he rips him apart.

 

Shiroganes the only one who visits him, usually, and isn't that fucked up? The ringleader of this all, the only one who cared. What a laugh he is.

They sit in silence, most of the time, her every move eliciting a hiss. Whenever she tries to speak he snarls. But eventually, when he realizes that she's not gonna stop these visits, his speaks. His tone is cold, dark.

"Why are you even here, tsumugi?"

She flinches at the sound of his voice, the lack of horfix making her all the more on edge.

"I, well, um.." she fiddles with her hair. She almost looks pitiful.

"Speak up." He snaps, and she sinks further.

"Th-they a-altered my memories, too," she says, "I didn't even know they did it-" a pause, a choke. A sob? Anger, or distress? "I was- I was just a contestant, it turns out." Her shoulders that ringed with tension just moments earlier sang, her clenched fists—when did that happen? When she was talking, just now? He feels a chill go down his back. He's not sure—loosen. She looks defeated.

"I see." Is all he says in reply, before moving over, creating a place for her warily. Even she was a puppet, it seems.

They watch anime until sun rise.

 

"Kaede wanted to visit," she says, a month in, fidgeting, "but she changed her mind." There are kisses on her collar bones before they abruptly end, a odd pattern of pink, the same shade as kaedes.

He opens his arms to her.

"Saihara told her. I think she hates me." She whispers. He doesn't say anything.

He doesn't know if he can.

 

He found it in the trash—his hat. He only wore it for a bit, during the game, and he doesn't seem to want to remember anything past that. So he throw it out.

Maybe he's being creepy, but he takes it when he sees it.

  
It smells like him. He almost forgot what that spelt like.

He falls asleep and dreams of a gun to his head, saihara hands eclipsing his.

 

 

"Please," he says, when she looks hesitant, hands resting just above his neck, "please." It slips out unbidden, and he hates it. He shouldn't beg, he shouldn't beg to be destroyed—pathetic, pathetic, pathetic, how pathetic.

"Call me pathetic." It's not a request, but a demand. He can hardly hear her say it over his beating heart. Her hands tighten and tighten until he can't breathe, her hands drifting from the sides of his throat to the center. It's dangerous, and he claws at her fingers, except he doesn't really. He's smiling, a sickly happy thing. It's not fake, only dead.

Shirogane drops him like a hot potato only moment later.

"I-I'm sorry- this isn't- I don't think this is healthy," she says, "I-I don't want to hurt you- I—" her eyes fill witch tears, before she turns and runs.

She doesn't come back for a week.

He only stares blankly after her, as the door clicks shut.

 

 

For the first time in months he doesn't dream of saihara.

He doesn't dream of anything.

**Author's Note:**

> What the FUCK did I just write


End file.
